


The Call

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Detox, Drug Addiction, Friendship, Gen, Loss, Mentor/Protégé, Minor Character Death, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:34:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22621090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: Every time the phone rang, he worried it would be the call.Gil helps Dani after her overdose.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Dani Powell, Gil Arroyo/Jackie Arroyo
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	The Call

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by realizing jackie died and dani od'd the same year. poor gil :'(

Every time the phone rang, he worried it would be the call.

A robocall for an appointment reminder gave him a start, his heart not settling until the message had long ended. After his boss called him in for an early case, he had to take a few deep breaths before he could consider driving. His hands trembled over a 10-13 that came through to assist one of his teammates. The phone flew trying to answer his kid checking in. Again.

When the phone rang, his world stilled and all he could hear was: “There's been an accident."

Ringing triggered a visceral response that rooted him in another place he never wanted to revisit. The hesitation that ensued cost him time, and in his line of work, time meant lives.

Buzzing continued in his pocket. He reminded himself he needed to do his job. _Answer_. “Lieutenant Arroyo.”

“Sir, there’s been an accident.”

The voice ricocheted from his ear, off his temple, and dropped lead into his stomach. More words followed the same trajectory, not even being heard before they fell.

He couldn't get that call again. Couldn't race to the hospital to find her dead. Couldn't sit beside her until they pried him away. Pulse racing, his wherewithal billowed across the floor.

"Sir? Could you please come down?"

He couldn't. Pieces of himself splattered on the wall, unable to reassemble composure.

“She _needs_ you.”

The plea pressed with enough urgency to remind him of his promise and stem the bleeding. He needed to get to the hospital. He could.

* * *

He'd been in the field when the call came in that Jackie had been hit, that he needed to get to the hospital immediately. School was closed for the day, and over breakfast, she’d told him she looked forward to chatting with friends and picking up a few things in the neighborhood. Jackie walked everywhere. She was careful, smart, tough - how could someone have hit her? When he'd gotten to the emergency room, they'd taken him back, yet pulled him aside and explained: she was already dead.

She wore the same grey t-shirt and jeans she had dressed in that morning. The sneakers she ran errands with. Her locket with pictures of their family. Her wedding ring. Rust spatters and red blotches from impact with the limousine.

Why the fuck had they told him the car? He could see the curve of front fender that swept her knees, the convex windshield that caught her shoulder, the sturdy frame that bashed her skull. Who was inside with front row seats to the horrid show? Had the driver stopped? They’d told him the car, but not if they’d known who did this. Who did this?

The seam scissors left opening her shirt. Leftover adhesive from leads now gone. A lethal head wound. Scrapes from the ground.

"Oh, Jackie," he took her hand, smoothed his thumb across her cheek. "I'm so sorry."

A piercing wail embedded in the walls, playing back as he held her, mourning for his wife, his partner, his _everything_. _Jackie_.

He hadn't been fast enough.

* * *

He ran the first red light when he saw no one was coming. Gunned it through a yellow. Went twice the speed limit than was sane on the city streets. Layed on the horn when traffic reached an impenetrable standstill. _Dammit_ he had someplace to be.

Left the car in the first space he could find. Ran through the front doors, eyes scattered, projecting the rhythm of his mind. He didn’t have time. Out of _time_. No _time_.

Asked for her at the front desk. Twisted the rabbit’s foot in his hand, heart pounding in his chest.

“You’re going to go down the hall, through those double doors,” she explained slowly, pointing and highlighting on a map. “You’ll get to…”

But he wasn’t fully listening. Adrenaline engulfed his ears, pushing him to race before she died. He took the card and jogged toward the doors, deciphering the route along the way.

* * *

There were few times he had seen Dani Powell without her signature fire. An early morning hangover after celebrating with the team the previous night. A concussion from a collision with a suspect. The draining moment tracking one murderer when there was nothing left to find.

Her eyes hid behind shaded lids. Hair disappeared under her shoulder on one side. An IV pierced her arm. Leads spidered out of a hospital gown and back to a monitor that blinked in silent beats. 

Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat. A rhythm revelling he’d made it. She was _alive_.

He sat beside her, whooshing out the breath he’d been holding since he’d gotten the call.

* * *

The world had a fuzz to the edges. A white wall coming into focus in the center. The ugliest green curtain led to a whiteboard with her name on it. She was...alive.

Fuzz settled to static she could clear if she concentrated enough. She turned to find Gil, chin resting on his hands. "You're awake," he spoke, not really believing she was looking at him.

"Yeah." Gil's eyes were tight, posture protected, presence at her side, and she realized: she was in deep shit. _Really_ deep shit. "I'm sorry."

He shook his head. “It’s gonna be alright.”

"I messed up." She had to find more of an explanation. "I..." What could she say? He had put all this trust in her to go undercover, fought for her place on the team, had her back - how could she... Her eyes teared and she turned away. "I'm sorry."

“Are you in any pain?" he asked, wanting to ensure her recovery was comfortable.

Her chest bore the aftermath of an elephant’s compressions. Any movement aggravated the bruising. “No." She deserved every spike of it.

"Is there anyone I can call?" He had to be able to do something for her.

"No." She would've called him. Her mind only resonated one wavelength. “Am I fired?”

His hands gripped each other. “We’ll talk about it when you’re feeling better.”

She slipped back to sleep, the darkness more welcoming than the ills she’d committed.

* * *

The days revolved around hibernation. Drifted in and out before she woke, shaking from a cold she didn’t know whether sourced from air conditioning or chills. Pressure built in her skull and haze returned, an incessant prod she needed to get high. She pulled the blanket tighter around her, trying to burrow deeper within her cave.

She fucked up.

Deserved every moment spent discussing her firing. Gil taking her gun, her badge, her pride, her _everything_. Earned going home shaking, the walls gossiping over what she’d done. “Did you hear _Detective_ Dani Powell got made? She took the drugs she was supposed to get off the streets - what is she made of, stupid?”

Her eyes cracked to Gil sitting at her bedside with a book. His ever-presence reminded her at some point, the conversation was coming. The conversation that would end the leading thing she had in her life.

“You don’t need to stay here,” she indicated with attitude to push him out of her space.

He set the book aside, compassion crinkling his eyes. “It’s no problem.” When one of his team was down, there wasn’t anywhere else he would be.

“Go home,” irritation sharpened her voice. “I’m _fine_.”

 _Fine_. Just like his kid. Fine never meant fine. “Forty-eight hours ago you were - “ He couldn’t get out the last word, his mind retracing his path to her side.

“Pretty sure I was there for that part,” she snipped, crossing her arms over her stomach.

He rubbed his brow. Venom wouldn’t push him away, yet it was tiring, and it wouldn’t help if he started giving it back. “Is there anything I can get you?”

“No.” He kept looking at her, expecting some answer beyond the negative response. “ _Seriously_.”

But he stayed.

She turned away, needing to look somewhere that wasn't disappointment. “Go do _something_ before I end up screaming and fuck this up more,” she ordered. "Then come back."

He could do that.

* * *

He found chamomile tea in the cafeteria. Ate half a stale chicken sandwich. Ripped apart the remnants of a napkin blaming himself for not recognizing she was in over her head undercover.

His peers wanted her badge without any further explanation. His boss wanted a full report and his recommendation before making a decision. The report he was supposedly completing while he sat at her side, just wanting to see she was okay.

People first - the rest could wait.

* * *

A U was ground around her hospital bed by the time he returned, her body restless and her mind shouting for another dose. “I brought you some tea,” he said and held out the offering.

“Thanks.” She paused her pacing and her hand appeared from under the blanket she had wrapped around her to take the cup. “Can we walk in the hall?” If she kept giving her feet something to do, the withdrawal was a bit more bearable.

He held his arm out toward the door, signaling for her to go first. “Sure.”

“All the nurses are busy, and they won’t let me go without an escort,” she explained. She held onto the IV pole, and they walked together into the hall. “I’m grouchy because I can’t get high.”

“I know how it works.” Between his job and his kid, he had enough experience. Enough reason to have seen she had a problem before she'd OD’d. He checked to confirm she was steady on her feet. “How long have you been using?”

“Since earlier this year. Ish.” She shrugged.

He tipped his head to a tech who passed them. “The doctor said a man brought you in.” The doctor had said she was being treated for an accidental overdose, but he didn’t have any idea of the circumstances.

“Estimé.” The epitome of her failures undercover, yet also, a friend.

They had talked about him during several debriefs. “He knew your name.” It was the only way Gil had been called.

“Yes.”

“How long?” His mind reached as far back as the Spring and disappeared into a storm.

“Awhile.” She watched him age before her, his disappointment chiseling his brow and under his eyes.

Onward. “When you get out of here, will you go to a treatment center?” Gil asked.

“Is that covered?” She needed guidance from her mentor; she had no idea how their insurance worked.

“Yes.” Their job had unwanted side effects. Not having enough experience to deflect. Being consumed by addiction and regret. Assuming the alias’ life as an undercover asset.

“I’ll go.” She stopped at the end of the corridor, meeting his eyes. “Look, I know I fucked up. If you’re gonna fire me, could you just do it already?” She’d thought the first words out of his mouth would have been that. Each word that wasn’t delayed the inevitable.

He shook his head. “I don’t want to fire you. I’m doing my best to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

They let that settle a minute, neither one of them ready to proceed speaking, so they picked up walking again.

“Go through with treatment. Get clean. We have a lot to talk about once you’re out of here.” How dumb this was and how to never do it again, to be rephrased better by then. He ran his hand over his goatee. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

“How?” She’d seen people fired for testing positive for drugs; the answer didn’t make any sense.

“Just because I wish you made different choices doesn’t mean I’m going to cut you loose. Besides, who would give me a hard time about my dad sweaters?” He shared humor, attempting to appeal to her preferred coping mechanism.

She gave a small smile.

“I’m here, Dani. I keep that promise to everyone on our team. Just try to remember that before things get so bad next time.”

“I _really_ fucked up.” Picking at the sides of her fingers became a temptation she couldn’t quell.

“Yes, you did.” And they would get through it.

* * *

His peers wanted her gone. “A liability,” they’d call her. Cited department policies no one read when they signed employment contracts. Pointed to past incidents and first, obey all rules.

But he called her Dani. A tough gal from the Bronx with molten determination in her eyes. A smart detective who could take direction, could learn through experiences. Who could admit she’d failed and come out the other side.

He wouldn’t fire her. Let them try to. He’d fight.

* * *

She wasn’t allowed visitors during detox.

It was good she was alone. Too old to need coddling, too smart to disappear before her work was done. The only way she could keep her job was finishing. She wouldn’t let Gil down again. She wouldn’t let herself down again.

She thought shame was enough to keep her away from using, but when the headaches came and repressed feelings overtook the wall of numbness, she would have considered a small taste. Just a bit to keep the edge off. A bit too dangerous for an addict.

She could barely admit her new status. Yet she supposed it was a designation that grew some time ago and she was just now having the courage to come to terms with it. To evolve it.

Talk with the therapist had her considering whether getting close to Estimé, seeking drugs, and working all hours of the night satisfied an urge for approval. A need to be better than average her could have been. With so many thoughts swirling, she wasn’t sure if that was it.

For two years, she’d been undercover. Two years she didn’t get to have her own life. She loathed to admit she was lonely, on some pointless pursuit to speed time. To get back to the life she'd left behind.

There was so much she had missed. The Mets in the world series. Team promotions. Jackie’s funeral. Any life besides…this.

She started this mess, now she needed to quit.

* * *

The first Saturday visitors were allowed, she sat at a table in the corner of the room, watching everyone’s guests enter. She had made her list of one, yet didn’t want to get overly optimistic he would come. He had cases to deal with and a mass paperwork fallout over what she’d done.

He came a little bit later than most of the others, a large smile on his face upon seeing her. “Hi, Dani,” he said, handing her a blanket.

“Hi.” She smiled back. “What’s this?”

“To keep you comfortable. The team says hi. Sorry, got a bit held up with the inspection.” He pointed back to the door he had entered through.

“You brought me a fleece blanket in August,” she said plainly.

“And? You’re inside and always cold.” Every time he’d seen her as of late, she’d been in a blanket. He didn’t think the gift was a leap.

“Thank you.” She smiled and dropped her eyes, feeling undeserving of accepting anything more from him.

He sat at the table across from her. “My wife would’ve made you something to eat, but their website says that’s a no go.”

“This is nice. Thanks.” She wrapped it around her shoulders.

His eyes softened. “How are you?”

“I feel like I should be asking you that.” He looked _tired_.

“You first.” She wouldn’t evade that easily.

“There’s a lot of talking about myself here. It’s…weird.” Helpful, confusing, frustrating…definitely weird.

“Well, don’t let your head get too big,” he teased. “Don’t want a hotshot when you come back.”

“I can come back?” Her surprise perked her posture, lit her eyes. Even though she knew he was fighting to keep her job, she'd doubted it would be possible. She was too early in recovery to build up hope that would vaporize.

“Yes.” He tried to measure her expectations. “I’m still working out the details, but yes.”

“Thank you.” She didn’t even know how to begin to thank him enough. “I’ll do whatever I have to do.”

He gave a slight nod. “I know.”

She leaned in to the table. “You look exhausted.”

His eyes fell. “I am.” He’d been hit by a battering ram of reasons why he should fire his detective, and only managed to stay standing explaining his fault in the operation. She needed more guidance; surely with it, she would learn from the experience.

But fatigue didn’t keep him from coming back each of the following few Saturdays, listening to her progress and sharing updates from the precinct. Didn’t keep him from picking her up the final Friday when she got to go home. He proved she had people she could count on - she wasn’t alone.

* * *

“My wife would’ve brought you home and cooked you a nice meal,” Gil explained. “But I realize now your cupboards aren’t stocked.” Being undercover did that sort of thing to an apartment.

She didn’t care about the food; it didn’t even feel like her apartment. “You miss her.”

“Yeah.” He twisted his wedding band with his thumb. “When I got the call you were hurt, I thought…” he trailed off, the field of emotions littered with discarded words.

“I’m sorry, Gil.” For fucking up. For causing him worry. For missing Jackie’s funeral. For burdening him with a mountain of paperwork she couldn’t imagine climbing.

He took a deep breath. “Between her, you, my kid - I can’t take another one of those calls.”

She nodded in understanding. “What was one of her favorite meals to cook for you?”

“Pastelillos.” He smiled at the memory. Crisp, fried outside, fillings of ground beef, sometimes cheese, sometimes vegetables, a bit of sauce. “They were fast to make if I was held up late at the precinct. Favorite at team gatherings.”

“How about we go get some. My treat.” She pointed at the door.

“Sure.” They moved to leave. “Can mark your 36 days. I’m proud of you.”

After what she’d done, her boss still stood by her side. With renewed purpose, the fire blazed in her eyes.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
